


Judge and Jury

by orphan_account



Category: Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Evolution, Tron: Uprising
Genre: Circuit Sex, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyrus knows how to free the Grid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judge and Jury

“Why did you come here?”  
  
The darkness clings to him as he emerges, all fragments of sickly yellow, shards of something broken pulling themselves into a collective skin. He stops too close for comfort, so that Cyrus can see his reflection in the faceless black helmet, and his mind wanders to dangerous, frightening places, where perhaps there’s nothing behind that helmet at all. He wavers, hesitant—maybe Tron was right, maybe there’s nothing left to be salvaged from ghosts—but Abraxas presses forward, demanding, his question hanging unanswered in the ozone-heavy air.  
  
Cyrus steels himself, fascinated by broken lighted lines and sickle claws. “I don’t have a choice.”  
  
The virus growls, a feral and unnatural rumble, presses closer. “ _You?_ No choice?”  
  
The growl bleeds into a laugh, and a disc smashes into the crumbling wall beside Cyrus’s head. The smaller program winces but stands his ground, a dazzling shower of yellow cubes and sparks spurting from the Grid’s fresh wound. The virus’s closeness is overwhelming, radiates power like a beacon. It beckons to him, and Cyrus obeys for a moment, leaning forward with risky curiosity before taking a deep breath and backpedaling a step.  
  
“You’re a soldier of Tron.” Abraxas sneers. The security program’s signature is all over the interloper.  “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kill you. You’re in _my_ territory. Pick your answer carefully, program.”  
  
Cyrus watches the monster’s claws flex, daggers in the dark. “I’ve seen you before, spreading that infection wherever you go. I’ve watched your infected followers running through the streets raving about the inevitability of destruction. You’ve brought the whole Grid down to its knees.” This time it’s Cyrus who presses boldly forward. “That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not just me that doesn’t have a choice. No program does. It’s why the ISOs are being culled. Don’t you get it? _Choice isn’t meant to exist for us.”_

The virus’s answer is faster than Cyrus expects. “Treasonous words for a servant of revolution.”  
  
“Tron won’t listen. Says I’m a ‘victim of propaganda.’ I saved his _life_ and he won’t offer me one ear to consider a different philosophy. He wants to free the Grid, but I realized something: none of us are free, not until we’re _dead._ ”

Abraxas wrenches his disc from the wall, wedges it beneath Cyrus’s chin. It whirs dangerously close to his skin, jagged edges and all, the sizzle of corruption hissing in his ears. “Then what makes you think, little program, that I am to waste my time letting you live?”

Consideration tilts Cyrus’s head. “I know how to end it. In an instant I could free us all. But I need help.”  
  
“You poor, naïve Basic.” Claws slam his face against the side of the wall, prick his skin, dig into the voxels beneath. The virus snarls, circuits bright with fury. “You don’t know anything of destruction. Not until it’s at your core, until it’s all that exists. You don’t have the means or the understanding to free your people. I do.”  
  
Corrosive yellow seeps into his circuits and Cyrus grits his teeth at the sting. “That’s why I came here,” he bites out, reaches for the disc at his back. Abraxas doesn’t stop him. “You epitomize what I want to achieve.”  
  
The virus laughs again, withdraws from his face. _Flattery_. “Then you strive for pain.”  
  
Cyrus’s disc arm strikes forward, deflecting the weapon at his throat, advances forward.  He expected this. “Try me. I’ve left Tron. I have nothing else to lose.”  
  
“You have _everything_ left to lose, Renegade.” Abraxas swings forward and Cyrus jumps to the side, throwing his weight into the movement to aim a kick at the side of his helmet. Abraxas ducks, sweeping a low kick in return at the soldier’s ankles. Cyrus falls away, but in one fluid movement has turned it into a backflip—a flashy move so very reminiscent of Tron it makes Abraxas’s lip curl—and arcs the white disc at his torso. Abraxas grabs his outstretched forearm and flips him sideways into the ground, twisting the Renegade’s arm behind his back.  
  
“Do you know what you must go through to become destruction? Do you even know the meaning of the word?” Abraxas hisses, bears his weight atop the struggling program. “To watch your world crumble around you and know you’re the reason it dies? I’m surprised our mentor hasn’t told you just how much of destruction he knows—“  
  
“ _Our?_ ” Cyrus twists his head to look at him incredulously.  
  
Abraxas freezes, then snarls, and with a snap of his wrist, gouges four gaping clawmarks across the program’s face. Cyrus grabs his wrist with his good arm and throws the virus’s weight to his side, shouting with the effort. As wraithlike and indistinct as he looks, the virus is solid power. Cyrus wants it. He wants to know destruction. He wants to know power, the kind that Tron won’t agree to teach him, the seductive kind that teases him with every sweep of the virus’s disc and every knowing word that leaves his mouth. He stumbles upward, testing his ravaged arm gingerly as Abraxas rises to his phantom feet. “Who are you?”  
  
“I know Tron better than anyone living,” Abraxas murmurs, “And he will never give you the power you yearn for.”  
  
Something burning hot coils deep in Cyrus’s chest, like anticipation, an eager excitement. “You can.”  
  
Abraxas creeps forward, claws furling and unfurling, like a predator too antsy with its prey. “You’d prefer death to that, program. To become destruction is to feel it. To embody it. Consider your options.”  
  
“I’m in this deep already.” That heady longing finally draws him toward the virus, a magnetic force that pulls him closer with each step. He finds that he can’t breathe—there’s a franticness in his circuits, a vicious, frustrated need. He’s seen the power the virus has, the very cities he’s brought down in crashing, destructive chaos, and he’s never wanted something so bad in his entire life, never wanted freedom more than now—“I don’t have options,” he whispers, stopping himself when the virus is in front of him, faceless helmet enveloping his visual spectrum. His eyes narrow, like it might help him see the face on the other side, but then there are claws tilting his chin back, pressing the back of his head against the wall. Abraxas leans over him, unnervingly quiet and reserved, runs the sickle-tips of yellow claws down the exposed plane of Cyrus’s throat, stopping to rest above his collarbone.  
  
“What a tragic creature,” the virus purrs. “You still think you’re doing the right thing.”  
  
The claws dig in and Cyrus cries out through bared teeth, feels lines of corruption spread out from the impact, crawling like User veins over his skin. The antivirus defenses Tron installed on his disc will ensure he escapes infection—that’s barely his concern. He wants the power transfer. This isn’t enough. He grabs a fistful of the virus’s cloak and pulls him closer, gasping as his programming fights the sickness, hisses, “You’re cheating me. _You know what I want._ ”  
  
Cyrus thinks he hears a chuckle over the crackle of tense energy, but it doesn’t matter when their circuits finally touch, when the Renegade throws his head back, overwhelmed with burning, white-hot power. The infection sizzles through his circuits, sterilized by his code, but it spreads potent energy through his body all the same, bright and blinding. The initial pain fades, wiped out by something better, something _good,_ a coiling, vitalic vigor that makes him desperate and incoherent. A ragged, thrilled moan tears from his lips, and he moves against the virus, drags their circuits together with deliberate slowness.  
  
Something about the friction makes Abraxas tremble. He pushes hard against Cyrus, hands leaving the wound in his chest to dig into the wall behind them, tearing gashes in the crumbling construct. They slither down to grip just above the program’s hips, thumbs sliding meticulously over broad white circuits to rub back and forth until Cyrus feels like he’s gone insane; he sees pinpoints of light, vivid and colorful, dancing across his vision in wild flashes. He’s making noise—he’s already too far gone to distinguish what kind—but he can hear Abraxas growling hungrily beside his ear, feels pointed teeth drag across his jawline, shivers and quakes and hears himself beg, once, sharply, before the virus obliges to give him more.  
  
Belatedly he realizes the virus’s helmet is gone, but through his needy haze he can’t find a reason to care about his identity anymore, and he’s too distracted by the murmuring against the tender skin beneath his ear—“I can make you _perfect_ ”—and he whispers a breathless _yes_ because it’s the only thing he wants, he _wants_ this and he doesn’t remember why anymore, only knows that Tron deserves what’s coming to him, he’ll make him see, he’ll teach him what real freedom is, what perfection is—  
  
Abraxas’s claws slide down the circuits on his thighs and his knees go weak. He chokes on a moan and feels himself begin to lose his footing. The virus foregoes waiting and pushes him to the ground, lanky, sinewy black form laying itself over him like a blanket of shadow. Claws drag down his chest, catching on circuits as they bleed power into the writhing program. It’s pain laced with a bright and keen pleasure, a high that makes Cyrus’s back arch and his fingers scrabble for purchase. He’s impatient now, starved. He wraps his legs around the virus’s back and flips him over, folds himself over corrupted circuits and rubs against them. His breath leaves his lips in harsh pants, maddened by friction and coarse energy and power; Abraxas indulges himself in the feeling before shoving the Renegade onto his back again, moves their bodies apart. Cyrus struggles for touch, but the virus pins him, holds his body inches above contact.  
  
Cyrus growls. “Finish the deal.”  
  
“There is no deal,” Abraxas murmurs, skimming the tips of his claws over new circuits, raw with power; Cyrus breathes out in a shuddering gasp, hips stuttering upward. “I did this of my own accord.”  
  
The Renegade swallows hard, trying to think coherently past the delirious ache. “I want—“  
  
“You don’t know what you want.” Abraxas laughs breathlessly, grabs Cyrus’s chin. “You want to free the Grid. You want power. You want Tron to pay attention to you. You want _this_.” His hand leaves Cyrus’s face to lay flat against the program’s chest, lets another surge of corrosive power crash into white circuits. He watches dark eyes light up with wild need and lips part with a moan and pulls his hand away again.  
  
Cyrus makes an exasperated noise. “ _Yes._ I want this. I _want_ it.”  
  
“You want destruction. And you’ll have it. You’ll know it inside, where it’s destroyed you, too.” He leans forward, murmurs into his ear. “Only broken programs know how to break.”  
  
Cyrus looks up at him with conviction, new circuits spreading up his face to accommodate the power. “ _Then break me_.”

Abraxas grinds his hips into the program beneath him, and Cyrus, finally unpinned, yanks him closer, ravenous for every crackle of energy, every acidic, euphoric burn from corrupted circuits. Pure, unrestrained power. The virus is manipulative, toys with him, but the novelty wears off once the energy builds again. Cyrus lets go, throws back his head when hands slide down his torso, digging into circuits, gripping hips to grind insistently against him. He groans freely, loud and wanton, enveloped by hot power and friction and static, and his movements turn frenzied; his hands grasp and slide over branching yellow circuits, eager for more. Noise fills his ears. His vision blurs. Somewhere between his gasps of _more,_ Abraxas finally finds his breaking point. His mouth lowers to Cyrus’s throat, licks along the line of new circuits, and Cyrus’s vision blanks out. Overload takes both of them in a blinding explosion of light, and they can _feel_ the energy spasm through their programming, delicious and dangerous, before everything turns black.  
  
-  
  
Tron fidgets with the search string again, sending out queries for the thousandth time, before Able finally lays a hand on his shoulder. “Give it a rest.”  
  
“I’m worried, Able.” Tron’s eyes dart back and forth across the massive screen overlooking the outlands, hopeful for returned queries, body tense and aching. It’s been cycles since his last recharge. Cyrus had left after he refused to listen; now he might be too late to do anything at all.  
  
“I’m sure he’s fine. Probably stormed off to complain to his new friends at the garage—I’ll check again if you want—“  
  
“No. I’m worried I made the wrong choice.”  
  
The screen flickers first, then the lights, struggling with the power surge before finally going out. They turn to look through the doorway, where the resemblance of Cyrus’s circuits stand—but they are different, riddled with new circuits thrumming with energy. He stalks towards them, glowing bright with confidence.  
  
“Cyrus,” Tron says carefully, taking a tentative step forward. “What did you do?”  
  
The Renegade laughs, and draws his disc.

**Author's Note:**

> So that was my first time writing any sort of porn. Sorry if it was totally weird.  
> Anyway, everyone on tronblr needed this pairing so I provided. I hope it was a fun time had by all. It was sort of strange writing a younger, more naive Cyrus, sort of on his way to being a not-so-precious-baby but still deluded into thinking he's doing something for the better of all programs. Newsflash, Cyrus: You ain't.


End file.
